I write, all the time. But there are no words to show for it. No neatly stacked notebooks, papers, files capturing thoughts and ideas, summing up my life so far. The book I started writing in twenty years ago is only half-finished and I find that incredibly sad.
But I know that I write because those stories are all there dusty and patient, filed away in my mind, sometimes words on top of words in an uneasy clutter.
You have to write to write. There is no other secret. It seems easy enough but when your writing moments are scattered through the day or scrunched in unearthly hours when the rest of the family is asleep, it is incredibly tough. And so your stories get buried under recipes and food stains, changed diapers and above all your own inertia. And the unwillingness to face the unwieldy words that inadequately describe the scenes in your mind.
But in the end, you have to go through the motions of putting something down on paper or screen everyday to get back into the habit of writing. There is no escape, you have to write to write.
But I know that I write because those stories are all there dusty and patient, filed away in my mind, sometimes words on top of words in an uneasy clutter.
You have to write to write. There is no other secret. It seems easy enough but when your writing moments are scattered through the day or scrunched in unearthly hours when the rest of the family is asleep, it is incredibly tough. And so your stories get buried under recipes and food stains, changed diapers and above all your own inertia. And the unwillingness to face the unwieldy words that inadequately describe the scenes in your mind.
But in the end, you have to go through the motions of putting something down on paper or screen everyday to get back into the habit of writing. There is no escape, you have to write to write.
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